The Frames Of Foreign Minds
by AcronymsAnonymous
Summary: Karkat is an runway model with an unconventional figure. Eridan likes gossiping. John likes being American.


When he was seventeen and was very aware that he'd stopped growing, it seemed like everyone in the world was in a mad dash to tell him that 5'7" was too short to be a model, but with some craftsman skills and some additional vocabulary, he'd make a right _fantastic_ plumber. He hadn't really wanted to be a model before that, but with all the comments coming in about how damn _pretty_ he was and how he would _never_ make it in the industry, he decided it was worth a go, especially since he knew that was the one place he could escape Eridan, who had very recently been rejected. When he was eighteen someone made an offer to him while he was walking back to his apartment with a bag of bread.

That's how he found himself standing under the brightest fucking lights, brightest fucking lights of _all_ of the bright fucking lights, trying to keep his balance in the shoes he was wearing (which, _really_, which man in the almighty fucking _world_ is fabulously gay and flamboyantly rich enough to buy these?) as he strutted down a catwalk. His lower back was cold, as a result of it's total exposure, as was everything from the knee down. With the exception of the boots. He had to say, if there was one plus side, it would have to be the fuzzy insides. Designer shoes don't tend to be so comfortable. Thank god there are exceptions.

He turned elegantly, he let his arms stay wafting just off his sides, and then he tried his very hardest to not look like he was eager to get out of there. That was the thing about being a model; emotion on the runway was like a sin, at least on that runway.

At the end of the day, the dressing rooms were several times calmer than usual. That may have been because he was one of few who were still working at three; it was a practice for the big show next week and many of the models had been dismissed early. He had been there for six hours. He was ready to leave.

"God. Fucking. Damn. These. _FUCKING_. Shoes." Karkat growled as he fell backwards onto the small sofa. Kanaya, of course, was in the spot next to him, using her hand-held mirror to remove the makeup off her left eye.

Kanaya, though still bitchy enough to make it in the industry, was not quite as bitchy as many of the other models. The first day on the job she taught him how to remove eyeliner completely and within three minutes. She became his modeling mentor for the next half a year, and then after that they became friends. They both understood how it was to be mixed racial. She was half japanese, he was half puerto rican, both of them were half french-caucasian. (Obviously they hadn't MOVED to France, it would be even harder to get into the industry that way. They were both French, born and raised, and still living in their home-city.) Karkat was even more unconventional than her though, with his skinny-ness and lack of build, god knows what they were scheming when they picked him up but it seemed to be working.

He looked at her and then he took a double take as he slowly and carefully removed the footwear.

"Your hair." he said. She looked at him and ran a hand through the side. It bounced back immediately but still bent under her hand.

"Vampires." she replied, smirking as much as was possible as she slowly removed the bright red from her lower lip. He didn't ask.

Soon he had his bag and he was out the door. What he would have liked more than anything, at that moment, was a nice latte and a chocolate croissant and maybe a book and a nice walk around the park, maybe to sit at the bench and watch the pigeons flock to piles of breadcrumbs scattered by old ladies onto the cement. Alone. Alone and without Eridan. This plan would go through perfectly if, by some twist of fate, things didn't go as they usually went.

He walked quickly, turned a few sharp corners, tried to sweep his hair in front of his face. And then he saw the park– however things turned out, he would have to walk through to get to his apartment. He took in a deep breath. One step forward. Good, nothing happened. Two steps forward. Three. He started walking at a normal pace.

"Hello, Kar!" said a voice from next to him. There was Eridan, matching his now-brisk pace easily. The purple streak was looking extra wavy today, and Karkat noticed that Eridan was wearing the long-sleeved, backless sailor-striped shirt that he himself had modeled very recently.

"Fuck." Karkat grumbled. Was it possible to walk faster than him? He turned, tried to dodge through a crowd of people. He emerged at the other end with Eridan still at his side.

"How was work today, Kar?" he asked.

"Go fuck yourself." Karkat replied.

"Aw, Kar, are you feeling moody today? I might have some news that would cheer you up. You could sit with me at the bistro by the pond and we could discuss things over a glass of champagne." Hopeful voice, as always.

"Fuck no." Karkat replied. Was there no way to lose this guy?

"Fine then. I _could_ tell you all the _juicy gossip_ I've heard _right now_. " There was a slight pause. Was he gone? "But I don't think I will; I think it would be _much_ more fun to make you beg for it." No. No, he was not gone.

"Eridan, I don't give two shits about your gossip, so why don't you grab it by its _ugly fucking _feathered neck and _shove it up_ your _fucking _ass." Karkat hissed.

"Fine, I guess I'll tell it to you now, if you _insist_, though it really is less fun that way." Eridan sighed dramatically. "If you tell anyone, tell them you heard it from me, but _guess who just got into the modeling business_?"

Karkat's blood ran cold as he responded, "Is it you, Eridan? Did you get into modeling?"

"And you said you didn't care!" Eridan laughed. "Oh, Kk, I knew you always had a soft spot for me!" A slow, sad sigh. "But no, it isn't me. You get one more guess!"

"Eridan, as long as I know that I won't have to see your face every fucking day for nine hours straight, I don't care." Karkat replied. Honesty is the best policy.

"Equius." Eridan barked out.

"What." Karkat said, stopping dead in his tracks. "You're shitting me. You _have_ to be shitting me. _Equius_? What the fuck would he be doing in _modeling_?"

"Please, Kar." Eridan said. "Have you ever even _seen_ him with his _glasses_ off? His _eyes,_ Karkat. They say he's going to become the next Andrej Pejic."

"You have got to be fucking kidding me!" Karkat said. "I don't believe a single fucking thing that's coming out of your liar-ass mouth you _fucking moron_! How the _fuck_ could _Equius Zahak _be in _modeling_?! And not just that– _WOMEN's CLOTHES?_ HAVE YOU EVEN _SEEN_ HIS MUSCLES?"

"_Well._" Eridan said, smiling as Karkat walked a tiny bit slower. Karkat wasn't sure when he had started walking again, but oh well. "To understand _that_ you'd have to understand the story of Nepeta's prank with Terezi; did you hear about that?"

"No." Karkat replied, sighing. God fucking damn it. Oh well, at least he was getting his walk in the park.

"You haven't really been keeping up with the news since you dropped out, have you?" Eridan asked.

"I can always rely on you to keep me informed." Karkat said in as much of a monotone as possible. Eridan smiled and squealed a bit, as expected.

"Oh, Kar. I _knew_ you always secretly enjoyed our conversations! Anyway, though, the prank. So you know Equius with his milk obsession and how his dorm room is always covered in pictures of those awful naked horse-men, right? _Well_, Nepeta went up to Terezi and _she_ was saying, well, she was saying to Terezi, 'Hey Terezi, I know it's not very kind but I think Equius needs to loosen up a bit and be his _real self_ with more people, to do that maybe we need to expose his vulnerable side!' And then _Terezi_ said, 'Hey, that's a great idea! What did you have in mind?' and _Nepeta_ said, 'What if we put something bad in his milk so he would ask one of his neighbors for milk because _I _won't have any milk at that time and he doesn't have the money for milk on Tuesdays!' So then Nepeta distracted Equius by taking him out to lunch while Terezi brought the milk–"

"What the fuck does any of this have to do with anything?" Karkat asked angrily.

"Sh, you will see soon. So Terezi brought the three cartons of milk up into Gamzee's room– god damn it Kar don't look so upset you already knew they were dating, but yes I agree completely– and she was going to put some cinnamon into all of the cartons, just open them up a _tiny_ bit and funnel it in." There was a moment of silence as Eridan was obviously waiting for Karkat to ask what happened next.

"But?" Karkat prompted.

"But _you_ of all people should know how completely color blind she is, and of course she wasn't really paying much attention either, so on accident she grabbed one of Gamzee's shakers, the ones with that strange foreign *how do you say* 'catnip' in them instead of the cinnamon, and poured that in completely!" Eridan hissed/cackled.

"What." Karkat said.

"I know, _right_? So she brought it down and put it in the fridge and Nepeta got back and the two of them were hanging out in Equius's room with Equius when Nepeta whispered to Terezi, 'Did you do it?' and then Terezi said, 'Yes.' And then Equius, _well_, Equius took out the milk and poured it into a cup and _drank it_! And everything was fine for a few minutes before he started tripping out and sobbing and acting all weird– apparently it was absolutely _awful_ to see him like that, and then Nepeta asked Terezi, 'What the hell did you put in that milk?' and Terezi replied, 'The cinnamon, I thought, but I did it in Gamzee's room so maybe not!' So Equius was tripping and no one knew what the _fuck_ to do–"

"When is this going to have to do with fashion?" Karkat asked.

"Soon, Kar. Soon. So basically no one knew what to do and Equius was acting crazy and basically what they did do is run over to someone else's dorm, ask for some milk, and gave it to him. Then he started to calm down a bit but it was still three hours before he recovered from the one glass of milk with the stuff in it." Eridan said. He took a deep breath before he continued talking. "So, basically, after that Nepeta and Terezi had to explain to Equius that they'd pranking him, and he wasn't too happy about that but he understood and it was Gamzee who came down and talked to him, but apparently that drug is _heavy_ on the hallucinations and super addictive but not to Gamzee because he's always had every type of drug going for him and has some type of immune wall or some shit built up, whatever he said, I wasn't really listening, but _basically_ what ended up _happening_ was Equius got addicted to the new drug!"

"What the actual fuck." Karkat said. "What. The. Fuck."

"I _know_, right? Equius never seemed like the type to get into drugs and whatnot, of course, this wasn't his own fault and not necessarily such a huge breach of his own discipline. Anyway, his dad heard about it after he got a notice from the bank saying that Equius was using up all of his emergency credit card money and he said he had a problem and confessed right away and whatnot because he knew, _he knew_, that he had a problem, god bless his inspirational soul, and he asked for some more money but his dad decided instead to send Equius to rehab and so Equius went, and he didn't even go to one of the good French ones either where they would have eased him off it either, he ended up going to a really strict one in Northern United States."

"America?!" Karkat asked. Eridan must be fucking with him.

"Yes! I know, right! But apparently it was über strict and he couldn't do anything and they wouldn't even let him work out because some of the addicts use heavy things to kill themselves sometimes and there isn't enough room to go running. He was cooped up inside all day with only some milk and lots of feelings talk and Nepeta got her rich Aunt, (That's aunt Jessica, you know her, Kk) to fly her over twice and he couldn't do anything so Nepeta helped teach him how to brush his hair and wash his hair so he would have something to do."

"I'm not sure I like this story a whole ton." Karkat said.

"I know, right? Anyway, after Nepeta showed him he realized that the one thing they couldn't do there, even if they were going to make him have more discipline, was make him cut his hair, so he grew it longer than it was and of course he was mostly eating bland food and not going outside ever so he lost a good amount of muscle definition and got skinnier. He wasn't actually eating that much, apparently he has a hard time eating without his ceramic centaur watching over him and Nepeta couldn't get it when she brought it over because it's locked within that bullet-proof class cabinet so he got _skinny_. And you know how he's shaped, Karkat, with the little bit of hip he's got on him, you know you have more so there's _no_ reason to be jealous, but when he's lost some muscle and grown his hair out and he started wearing long-sleeves because they're therapeutic, well, he totally looks like a girl!" Eridan said.

"Did they take his glasses away?" Karkat asked.

"Yeah, they gave him new glasses and some books to read with. He can recite the most beautiful horse poetry, Kk, it's beautiful. Really deep." Eridan said. "But anyway, he and his dad decided that he should stay in America a little longer to earn his way back to France and so he could have that opportunity to get back on his feet– so he worked at a Dairy Queen, and one of the American agencies saw him and they thought it was just like Andrej Pejic, finding the boy who looked like a girl working at a fast food place, and they thought that they could compete with our french agencies if they had a gender-bend model too so they snapped him up and they will be shooting with him at their french studios sometimes and they offered to pay for his trip back but he said that his agreement was that he would earn his way back and he does not believe that model things count as earning money so he worked at a dairy queen until two weeks later when he had enough money to pay for a cheap cargo-plane kind of trip back to France and Nepeta picked him up from where he landed and drove him back to the school."

"What the fuck." Karkat said. "Equius is a model now. But wait– how in the almighty _FUCK_ did they get him to agree to this? I mean, he can't exercise, he has to look womanly and wear makeup, that doesn't seem like anything he would ever like to do!"

"_Well._" Eridan said, and Karkat sighed. "That, my friend, is another story."

"OHgoddamnitEridanmakeitquick ." Karkat said.

"His father went bankrupt because of Equius's treatment and because he lost all of his money gambling and Equius wants to restore his family fortune and also they've promised that he gets to do at least thirty percent of shoots in the countryside– with horses. And they even get to claim that he's an American model too, because he's a Texan on his father's side, poor baby." Eridan said.

"Please." Karkat scoffed. "As if any American model could ever be so good. Everyone knows, it's the French that will always be at the top of the fashion industry."

"Oh yes, Kk, I seem to have forgotten– You're a model too, which means that, in a way, you're now competing with Equius!" Eridan said.

"Nope." Karkat said. "I've said it before and I'll say it again; I don't want to be globally recognized, famous. I just want to have a job. And that job just _happens _to be modeling."

"Oh, that's right." Eridan deadpanned. "Well, you have fun with your non-fame and non-fortune, Kk. I bet Equius will let you over to his palace for a wrap party and you can drink his bubbly and eat quiches from a sliver platter on the velvet cushion his butler's holding out to you, and then you can go home and fall asleep on your fifty-dollar mattress to the sound of your rusty faucet dripping slowly through the night."

"That's a bit dramatic." Karkat replied. "I'm going home now."

"Oh, Kar, won't you invite me in for tea? I would just love a cup of chamomile about now."

"No." Karkat said.

"You don't have any chamomile? I'm fine with green tea, too, you know."

"I don't have any green tea."

"Or any tea in general. A nice steaming cup on a pleasant early autumn day–" Eridan sighed.

"I don't have any tea." Karkat replied. "Fuck off."

"Ah, well, that's alright; fuck the English, anyway, that's what I say. I'd love a good cup of coffee, too." Eridan said.

"I don't have any coffee." Karkat said.

"No coffee? Karkat, you live above a coffee shop, we _both_ know that _can't _be true." Eridan said.

"I am. Allergic. To coffee." Karkat said. "Oh look, there's my door. Nothing for you to do here, I suggest you fuck off, right now."

"Are you _sure_ you don't want to invite me in? You know, Kar, this opportunity may not come to you again in the near future." Eridan said.

"Go fuck yourself."

"Aw, please, Kar?"

He lived in a flat above the corner-story type cafe, which might as well been known to the general public as 'le typique café français', though it takes a local to see that it really is unique. The lace curtains, the small twirling lollipop rack, and then of course the individual smell of the individual bread wafting constantly through the ceiling and up into the carpets of Karkat's home. The entrance to his apartment was beautiful, cream-painted twirling iron latched to the brick directly next to the cafe on one side. The stairs led straight up from there, and by taking the door on the left at the top of the staircases you would find yourself in the home of Mr. Dowinger, the sour-minded pickle-maker. But if you took a left, you would find yourself in the home of a certain Karkat Vantas. And that was the home he wanted to be in at that moment.

He took out the key and opened the gate, quickly, with Eridan still blabbering at his side. And then quickly, with the stealth of a ninja and the grace of the model he is, he put himself on the other side of the gate and pulled it shut behind him.

"Goodbye, Eridan." he said. "Leave." Eridan sighed, turned, and trotted to the shop. Karkat pocketed the key and trekked up the twenty steps to his door.

His flat was modest, to say the least. Eridan was almost right about one thing, he did have a fairly cheap mattress, though it was discount and he would hardly say it was fifty dollars. But let it be said that though he lived fairly cheaply, it was a stylish kind of cheap. His plastic silverware looked like silverware, they were sliver and had designs on them. So only a couple more cents a bag then regular plastic silverware, but still not as expensive as real silverware. His paper napkins were kept folded and classy at all times and were either a deep red or a deep blue, depending on the company or his mood. His table was cheap, so what, no fucks given. It was covered by a neutral woody brown colored table cloth. And the silver chandelier that hung above it may have been cardboard, but at least it was classy. There are some homes with no chandeliers at all, and he thought that must be what's missing from their decor.

The kitchen in this flat was small and pushed to the back of the house, which was inconvenient when there _were_ guests, which was admittedly not that often, or even whenever Karkat wanted to put some mother-fucking _food_ on the mother-fucking _dining table_, because the dining room was positioned on the opposite end of the flat by the two curtained (made of old doilies sewn together by Kanaya who was working to get into the actual designing part of the fashion trade) windows. Admittedly, this was Karkat's own fucking fault because essentially the dining and family rooms were merged together with no doors and no walls so he could have put it any other way, though really, he really _couldn't_. So when you walked in, there was the living room, right in the middle, because that was pretty much the way that it was meant to be.

This living room included a couch (beige), a bean bag (ocean blue), another bean bag (claret), and a book case (beige) full of books from rows two to four arranged by color, a lap top and computer things stored on the top row, and board games on the bottom. His bedroom was next to that, furnished with a bed, a built-in closet, and a lamp (it's a _bed_room, what else does it really need?). In between the bedroom and the kitchen was the water closet.

Modeling was a hard job, but not that hard. The thing about Karkat was that he didn't like spending money, not really. It always made him feel like the next day he would fall to total financial ruin and have to go live with Eridan. Food and bills already took up enough of his salary, he couldn't be getting objects on top of that.

Though it was only just past three, he was tired, and of course hungry from not eating all day. The solution to this, of course, was to go to the fridge then sit down with a carrot on the sofa. It might be asked of him why he ate so many raw vegetables. There were, of course, several answers to that question. The first would be that they're healthy. The second would be that he's a model and needs to watch his figure. But the third and most true answer would be that if he tried cooking and anyone saw the food he made they might just start to think he was british.

He finished his carrot and made himself a cup of chamomile. He could just doze off, lying on the couch with his cup of tea...

When he awoke, it was to rude knocking on his door, and it startled him to cause the now cold chamomile to spill across the chest of his grey turtle-neck. He tried to sop it up with a paper towel as quickly as possible but he wasn't sure it would really work. The best he could manage was to kind of wipe it off and set the tea cup on the floor before bolting to the door to see who had been knocking incessantly for the last half a minute.

It was an American.

He could tell right away by the vibe the boy gave off; he was about Karkat's age, similarly dark hair though maybe slightly more on the dark dark brown side of black as opposed to the blackest black and thick, square wire-rimmed glasses that perched sloppily on his nose. He was wearing a regular white t-shirt with a dark plaid button up over it like a coat, though it was most definitely _not_ a mother fucking coat, and khaki shorts.

His first instinct was, naturally, to close the door. The second was to berate his appearance loudly and, of course, in French until he walked away. This guy beat him two both by talking loudly in an accent that made him want to close and lock the front door and then barricade it with all of his fancy cheap things.

"Hey, I'm John Egbert–" the American said.

"I deed not assk for your name." Karkat said in his very shaky English. He hadn't been practicing since high school, he dropped out of college. He thought he was doing pretty well so far.

"–and I'm the new intern, the college transfer student from America–" he continued.

"Pas de merde." Karkat muttered under his breath.

"–so I was wondering about the address of that place you mentioned that I might be able to get a french work permit from, you know I really hate to be a bother but I think I really _will_ need one to work here, I mean I really do want to work here, my dad would practically _disown_ me if I didn't go into the food industry and _god knows_ there isn't really a better place then France for that–" (If Karkat and this imbecile were going to agree on anything ever in their two-minute relationship Karkat would have to say it would be _that statement_) "–not that my dad really has _too _much to do with it, I mean, I really would _personally_ like to go into the food making business too, I mean, gosh, Mr. Dowinger–"

"Mister Dowinger?" Karkat asked. Loudly. The only way to get The American's attention, apparently. The American stopped talking and lowered his gaze. He was a bit taller than Karkat, damn him. "No. Zaht is not me." He raised his hand and pointed at the door across from him.

The American turned, looked at the door numbers, and said, "Oh, okay. Yeah, sorry buddy, I guess I just didn't see the door numbers there. I mean, I guess I just kind of _overlooked_ them. I'm not used to fancy buildings like these, we don't have any city things like this in Iowa–" _Dear Jesus_, Karkat thought. _Iowa._ "–well, I shouldn't say that, there might be some _someplace _in Iowa but certainly not the part that I'm from. My part of Iowa is pretty darn simple, I mean, it's really just a small town where my dad owns the only bakery around. That's why I decided to come to Paris, see, because I really wanted to see the world, especially when I was a little kid, and I thought that the opportunity for a college transfer sounded just _great_ so I took advantage of it, and look at where I am now! _Isn't it fantastic_?" _Isn't it fantastic_? The words echoed in Karkat's head, they filled him with a sense of long-lasting dread. "Anyway, _ex_cuse my manners, I've been just _awful_, I haven't even gotten properly acquainted with you yet. I'm John, well you _did_ already know _that_. What's your name? Why are you here?" Karkat responded to that with a long pause and then some words.

"I am Karkat." he said. "I am here because I am French."

"Right, of course." John laughed. "But why are you _here_? Why are you in this apartment right now? What's your story?"

"I am in this apartment because I have not yet failed to pay my rent on time." Karkat said. "I have not yet failed to pay my rent on time because I have a job." Karkat commanded himself to think quickly. He could think of only one escape. "...A job which I must now be going to."

"That's great!" The American laughed. "Say, where _is_ this job of yours?"

"I do not know you well enough to feel comfortable disclosing such information." Karkat said. "I will be off now."

"Is it the kind of job you would take the Metro to?" The American asked.

"No." Karkat said. He pulled on a coat from where it was folded on the floor and stepped out. He made sure the door was locked behind him. Then he started down the stairs.

The American continued to follow him.

"Maybe a taxi?" he asked.

"No." Karkat replied.

"Do you walk?" The American continued.

"Walking is healthy." Karkat said. Maybe if he walked a little bit faster... That was the hope he clung to, the hope he always clung to. He stared at the sky, he thought, _if there is someone up there He would let me pass..._ But as always, his faith failed him. Clearly, there was no one upstairs. The American continued to jump along beside him.

The American really did have a strange way of walking, every step was like a great bound on the moon, each step was a nationalistic claim for his homeland, each step was a stride of complete American pride and idiocy.

If you had asked Karkat at that very moment, he would have said there were two kinds of idiots; the American kind, and the smart kind.

"–have you ever been to America? It's pretty nice there, really. I recommend it to _everyone_, I mean there are different parts of America for every personality, I think San Francisco or maybe New York is the most European we've got though. But there isn't any place like France for the food or the fashion." John said. His name was John, right? "I really like what the president's doing with all of the gay-rights stuff over here too, I mean at first I was kind of surprised because we don't get anything like that across the pond, not really, but we're working towards it, I swear we are! But gosh, you guys get stuff done so much more quickly over here than we do back in the states–" John said; Yes, Karkat was almost certain his name was John, "–also, I've been getting hungry; do you know where I could find a McDonalds?" said The American.

"You are in Paris, Mister Egbert." Karkat said, stopping and slowly turning to face The American. "I cannot permit you to eat at McDonalds after you have confessed their culinary superiority. Fuck-ass." He resumed walking. The American matched his pace.

"Whoa, okay there, Karkat!" John said. "Aren't the french McDonalds better than the American ones, though? I mean. I have heard rumors of such."

"They are very unhealthy, you put on weight immediately." Karkat said.

"Why are you so concerned about weight? Isn't that, like, for girls to be concerned about?" Karkat stopped walking again, slowly turned to face The American. "I. I'm sorry, I guess uh, uh, Americans tend to be kind of closed minded about things? I mean. Uh." In the back of his throat, Karkat made a 'trololo' noise and continued walking. The American followed.

"There is a place that you might go to." Karkat said.

He led him to the little Bistro by the pond, at which he might nearly be considered a regular though he would never let Eridan know that. John rushed along behind him and finally caught up just as Karkat got a waiter.

The waiter's name was Paul, he was a friend of Karkat's mother and so generally wound up as his server. He nodded towards John and with one eyebrow raised judgmentally asked, "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"

"Un Américain, malheureusement." Karkat replied. John caught up to him. In English; "Table for one, please?"

"But wait," John said, "I've been following you around and you've shown me this place, won't you eat with me?" Karkat paused to collect his breath for what he thought would be a vehemently angry rejection. "Of course, I'll pay. My treat." That did sound a little bit less repulsive... "I think, also, I have done a bit too much talking today. But I would really like to hear about your career, and this beautiful city you live in." He was sold, though slightly reluctantly.

"Fine." Karkat replied. "A table outside, Paul. Merci." Paul smirked, Karkat got the sense that it was in distaste, and bowed after he set down the menus at a table. He left them with a swoosh of his white apron and a raised nose. Karkat ignored it. God bless the French.

John, Karkat was quick to notice, was entranced by the scene.

The interlacing designs of cold, white plant life curled together to make the top of their table, the chairs were of course themed similarly. A single pale candle flickered dimly against the setting sun, the soft and hopeful, thin molten slowly paved over the fossil remnants of it's own kind that extended and reached forever towards the earth. The menus sat worn, faded, yellowed and untouched in front of them; their weathered bodies painted with stains from the higher life like artwork. But as Karkat looked more and more, as he stared into the bright and hopeful eyes of a boy raised to hold freedom higher than truth and beauty, he realized John was not, in fact, looking at the scene of their placement and their little glowing candle but the scene beyond that.

John was seeing the pavement and cobblestone mixed and patched with the brave and frequent interludes of grass. John was seeing the winsome blush of pink across the evening sky; he was seeing it stirred with the first fallen of the early yellowed autumn leaves and the late blooming water lilies, like Monet spilled casually from a frame. He was seeing the scattered mountains of golden breadcrumbs and the pigeons like doves as they dived and dug and rooted through them and the fashionable old ladies feeding to the piles for the last time of the evening as they packed up their knitting, their gossip, their books, and marched off through the city.

Karkat remained silent for the dearest moment of the day, he peered out at the familiar world through John's foreign eyes and he saw a glimpse of the beauty freshened and new and distinct, like sitting in a painting rather than walking past a photograph. There was something about it that surprised him, maybe the change by perspective, maybe that he hadn't seen it like this all along. That he knew the beauty but just didn't see it.

He resolved that he would keep this evening forever. He resolved in the instant to make the night work and forget the morning and forget the morning when he woke up; let this feeling remain suspended in time until it was just a withered photograph that he kept in the front pocket of the suit he wore to other peoples's weddings. He smiled a bit across the table. John's eyes moved to this smile and so of course he quickly removed it. John smiled.

"What would you recommend, from the menu? Perhaps I should rephrase: what would you recommend for an American?" John asked.

"Steak Frites, probably." Karkat said.

"Sorry, I guess I didn't research France as much as I thought I did before I came over here. What would that be again?" John asked. _Must be the accent_, Karkat thought.

"Steak. Frites." he said, more slowly this time so that maybe John would get it.

"I. Um. Oh, gee. What is that?" John asked. He seemed troubled. Karkat thought for a few moments before a pained expression crossed his face. He knew exactly what was going on.

"Fucking hell." he muttered, for some reason this made John giggle a little bit. "Steak. With–" almost choking noise, not quite "French Fries."

"Oh." John said. "Alright, sounds good enough."

"Good enough?" Karkat said. "Stop. This is France. This is the best food you will taste in your lifetime, you will eat other food and you will think, 'wow, what a garbage parade this is, as compared to the few meals I ate that year I spent in France.' It is more than good enough. It is fantastic."

"Alright." said John with a grin. "I will take your word for it. But enough about food." John closed his menu and leaned forward a bit so that he was hunched over the table. "Tell me about yourself."

Was this an American thing? Was it flirting? What in the world would the appropriate response be, and in what ways could Karkat avoid disguising and defiling it?

"What... do you want to know?" he asked. That seemed appropriate.

"Oh, I don't know." John shrugged and smiled. "Hm. Maybe... Where did you get that turtle neck?"

"Work." Karkat responded automatically. Then came an internalized wince.

"Would you consider yourself familiar enough with me now to tell me what your job is?"

"I think I'd prefer to wait, or maybe just never." Karkat replied. Safe. Honest.

"Alright. I'll keep trying then." John said. "What are your hobbies? What do you like to do?"

"...Work tends to be a bit of a hobby for me..."

"Are you sure I can't know?"

Karkat took a moment before saying, "God, I'm really fucking sure."

"Alright. Anything else you like to do then?" John asked. "Reading, maybe?"

"Yes, I do read a lot." Karkat said. "Lots of... Romance novels, mostly. I won't be ashamed about it. And poetry as well. I listen to music. American music is popular over here, American pop, but I don't fancy it a ton. I watched Eurovision, that was fun. I swear to fucking hell that Swedish girl did not deserve to win with Euphoria."

"I haven't seen Eurovision, but it sounds like a good time." John said. "Do you... watch any television? What's that like over here?"

"Much the same, I expect, except better." Karkat said. "I have not actually watched much french television because, point one, I do not have a television, point two, I do not wish to watch television."

"Alright." John said. "So... Oh, looks like it's time to order food?" Karkat nodded. "I'll have Steak and Fren–" Karkat snapped his fingers to distract Paul.

"He will have Steak Frites, and I will have the Salad of the Day and I think the Chardonnay would do nicely as well." Karkat said. John looked bashful of his mistake. Karkat gave him a slightly forgiving look.

The meal was eaten without silence, they discussed food and they discussed politics and they discussed cultural differences and John asked about lexical gaps and Karkat was forced to reevaluate The American's intelligence. It was a nice night, Karkat managed to save a few of John's social fumbles and the ones that made things awkward or frustrating didn't make them _too_ awkward or _too_ frustrating. They talked and ate a little then talked some more. They drank champagne under the stars and they shared a few wishes as they blew out the one candle and watched the air of their breath stir the puddle of the cooling wax as it lay under the crumbling, ashen string. Karkat reached for the check but he let John pay because that was the agreement.

John walked Karkat back to the flat. He asked him, "Would you consider that a, how do you say, rendezvous?" Karkat managed a half drunken laugh and responded only with, "Oh my fucking god, is that an American thing? Stop trying. Call it a date. And sure, if you want it to be."

John bowed to kiss his hand at the open gate, Karkat let him even though it was silly. He was half drunk and _he_ was silly. It was the perfect time to make mistakes.

He felt the warm lips on his early-autumn cold hand.

He twirled his fingers around John's wrist.

"Why don't you come up with me?" he asked. "It can't be considered falling until you've reached a low point; it can't be considered falling if you never reached a high place."

"Is this a good idea?" John asked. "Is this what you want?"

"Fuck you. Fuck everything. Fuck the world." Karkat said. "Does it matter if I know what I want? Follow me, and I'll show you what I want."

The lock clicked shut behind them.

The shoes lay by the door.

The grey turtle neck fell on top of the empty tea cup.

The shadowed, muffled noises echoed at midnight and the city streets were buzzing with the feint and unforgettable magic of a city through foreign eyes while someplace a bird was chirping.


End file.
